


Pub Talk

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: All about kissing, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft goes by the book, The usual man talk, Who's kissing?, confessing over drinks, making fun of something that becomes seriouos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Amazing what comes out of someones mouth with a bit of the brew
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 55





	Pub Talk

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of silly. But in the end----

The pubs blaring pandemonium is not the best stage to discuss anything real. Chit-chat is good. Chat about work, about the latest rugby match, about what beverage we're having and the flavor.  
So it's an unforeseen happening when Greg leans toward me, his lips close to my ear, and says, "Mycroft kissed me."  
I humph, jump back, give him a look of, what did I hear you say, and come back with," I'm sorry. Don't think I heard you right."  
"You heard me. He kissed me."  
" Mycroft kisses people?"  
"He's fantastically good at it. Takes it as serious as his career."  
"Okay, fill me in here. Wait," taking up both glasses and retreating to a booth near the front where the roar is down to a low grumble.  
We slide in, and he drops the glasses, sloshing mine over. A few swigs later wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he leans in close.  
"Okay, give that to me again, Gregory Lestrade. He what?"  
"As Sherlock would say, I don't repeat myself," his face in a shit grin.  
Knocking my knee against his," don't start with that bullcrap. He kissed you. Okay, you shit. How and why and what brought that on and where and--"  
Greg holds up his hand, "whoa. Slow down. Slow down, doctor. You'll give yourself a heart attack."  
" I will if you don't get to the point, you shithead," glaring, tapping my fingers on the table, all ears. But my damn friend insists on drawing this out as long as he can.  
"Wellll, we were in my office, you see, and discussing that last case. You remember, the one that your flatmate Sherlock made such a fuss over the blood?"  
Waving my fingers in the air, "okay, I get it. So damn you, get to the point!"  
"I came from behind my desk, took my coat off the rack, opened the door for us to leave, when--,"  
He's fiddling with his empty glass, and I begin to think he's sorry he even mentioned it.  
"Hey, pal," resting my hand on his," don't have to go further. It's all okay with me."  
"No, no. Just the memory," shaking his head so hard his hair flying out of place," he leans into me. I back off, not sure what to make of this."  
He continues," he looks me in the eye, he grabs at the lapel of my jacket, pulls me close, and his lips barely touch my lips. But it was a kiss. No mistaking it. And out the door, he went."  
"And that's it? He actually touched your lips?"  
"Oh, believe me, John, there was no doubt. He kissed me. It wasn't anything big. It was a brief touch. But it was unmistakably a kiss."  
"Shit in hell. The mans got it for you."  
Of a sudden, his head raises, "now don't go getting ideas. I don't understand the reason or anything. And if you think for one minute--,"  
My finger shoots out, pointing at him," you're interested, and don't give me guff. I know you're not above sex with a guy."  
"Fuck, stop it right this very minute. I'm sorry I told you. Forget it, okay. "  
He's so upset and angry; I have to turn away for a minute. But every time I think of that austere, always doing the right thing, Mycroft-- kissing or even touching anyone I have to smile. But right now I have to change the subject-- for Greg's sake.

* * *

Once at the flat Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa using my laptop, of course, to do something outrageous I'm sure.  
Fingers typing at that furious speed I so envy, he says without looking up, "good evening with the Inspector?"  
Can't help it but I giggle.  
The typing stops, he looks and stares. That stare that says nothing gets away from me.  
Sighing I sit in my chair, and giggle again.  
"Okay, if you must know. You'll drag it out of me anyway. Your brother kissed Greg."  
If Sherlock could have stopped the world from turning just then he would have.  
"Repeat that, please."  
I flinch, and my eyes widen. Sherlock never has anyone repeat anything--and he definitely doesn't say please!  
"Your brother Mycroft. You do have only one brother by that name. He kissed Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Said to me by the detective himself, tonight, in the pub."  
The top of the computer slams shut so hard I wince. My computer!  
And then, before my eyes, the slow beginnings of a grin drift onto his face, widening. He smirks.  
And I can't help but follow.  
"My brother. My brother." Standing up, he twirls around, "Ah, fire for the gristmill."  
Raising my hand and rising," oh no. You're not to do that. You're not going to harass the poor man. Please. Give him some privacy."  
Sherlock stops, runs his hand through his hair, and quirks his head at me," give up the chance to make merry with my older sib?"  
"I'm begging you. Don't. And now I'm going to bed if you don't mind."  
"Wait," taking my wrist," was it a prim tap on the mouth or a sensual one with tongue?"  
This is getting stupid, I think.  
"It was only a peck. What business is it of yours, you idiot? Sorry I said anything."  
His fingers close tighter, and he draws me into his space, leans down, and his lips touch with mine. I'm so shocked I stiffen up. His tongue prods at my lips and sighing profoundly, and without a thought, I open to allow him in. I groan, stepping even closer. The heat, the feel of those lips that I've wanted to bite, to sear with mine are right where I've always dreamed.  
Breaking away as suddenly as he came close he blinks rapidly, a sharp intake of breath and takes off, his room door slamming.  
Oh no! This is not going to stop here.  
I need an explanation.

My feet fall heavy on the wood floor, and I'm at Sherlock's door and without knocking I step in.  
Crosslegged on the bed, his own laptop this time next to him, he looks up, surprised.  
Trying to keep some modicum of order I stand straight, my fists gathered at my side, "could you please explain to me what that was for?"  
"Well, couldn't let big brother one-up me could I?"  
My mouth curves down, my breath stutters, "you-- you--absolute--," and since I can't finish without punching that smug face I soldier turn and leave.  
"Wait, wait, John," the padding of bare feet following me.  
I feel his hands on my shoulders, restraining me, and shake them off.  
"Text Lestrade and tell him--,"  
"Oh no! I'm not going to play your game," my mouth tight, the words coming through in a gasp.  
"The next thing you know you'll want me to have sex with you just to feel superior to your brother," trying to grab back some of my composure. Wanting those lips again. But not for the reason he's going for. The fuck!  
"But what if I want that? To have sex! With you."  
My back stiffens, my mind whirls. What did he plainly come out with? What were those words he used? With me? Sex? Stop and think a minute, John. He's saying it for the wrong reasons.  
Afraid to turn to face him, I blow out breaths, in and out, and stop. I can hear the noise of the late-night traffic, can now catch the neighbors' tv playing operatic music. Nothing moves.

I can't go to my bedroom because he's in my way. Have to face him. Can't and won't do that.  
I take my jacket off the rack and putting my hand in my pocket to make sure I have the keys I march out.

* * *

The place to sleep is a cot in the surgery. But--sleep avoids me. Instead, images of Sherlock float all around me. His face so close, his lips warming mine, and the hardest to defeat is his naked form lying on a bed.

* * *

For the next days, we maintain a distance. Aiming for spaces not quite in the same area as the other. The only utterances are short and to the point.

* * *

Each evening I shower and scoot off out the door to either roam the streets or to hit a pub. Not daring to get the slightest bit tipsy. Have no idea what I might do if I stay.

Oh, there are inklings of it while in the flat. A furtive glance at the middle of his trousers, my hand ready to reach out to finger his hair and my eyes that continuously watch those lips while he's dashing off notes on the laptop.

It's no surprise that I jump at the chance to meet with Greg at our usual haunt. He's sitting at a booth, not at the counter and I shimmy in, a sort of question in my head.  
"What happened to the bar?"  
"I need a bit of privacy and shouting is not my idea of keeping things to a murmur," stating while both hands hold tightly onto his glass.  
He's ordered a beer for me, and I swig,  
His whole body rotates to gaze at me. Those brown eyes muddied with confusion.  
Both hands in his lap, he hesitates and then, "You know I'm bisexual, don't you?"  
Am I supposed to answer that or simply sit and wait for more?  
"Don't you?" almost a pleading in his sound.  
"Yes, I knew that. As your marriage was going kaput, you mentioned that you had been with men and loved it. And--that's when--,"  
"Yea, well," almost as if he didn't care what I said next.  
"I need your advice. You're always so good in the area of sex and such."  
I shake my head as if to deny, but he doesn't stop.  
"Oh, come on. Everyone has heard your army stuff concerning you and the women. You've bragged about it enough when we're out with the group."  
"That was a braggadocio. It wasn't that much."  
His shoulders shrug in annoyance. "Be that as it may, I'm asking for your advice. And don't stop me. No excuses."  
He shifts his weight away from me, looks down at the table, opens his mouth, closes it, bites his lip.  
"Mycroft and I have been--snogging," he stops. And then," oh nothing more than that. But what amazes me is the fact he's teaching me the," and he air quotes the next part," art of kissing. And he's damn good."  
I've got my lips tightly woven together. Trying not to laugh at that image and the fact that old mechanical, wind him up Mycroft is enlightening such as Greg on a subject as this.  
"What, does he have a book sat in front of him-- with illustrations?" I can't resist and immediately feel sorry. But to my surprise, Greg lets out a guffaw.  
"Yep, that's how it started. We were in Mycrofts office, he behind his desk and me sitting on the sofa. He got up, book in hand, sat next to me with it opened, looked down at it, and began."  
That mental picture was too, too much. I burst out laughing and slapped Greg on the arm.  
He joined me, and it got so that we were coughing, everyone turning to look at us.  
Finally, calming ourselves, Greg, wiping his eyes, said," But once he put that book away, it was fantastic. He read me instead. Picking up all the nuances of what I wanted. Shit, John, I was so fucking hot, so wanting to take him down that I grabbed at him, you know where."  
Intake of breath," and what did he do?"  
"He jumped away. And--get this--he said--too soon. Not enough information yet. Which means--?" and he lets it hang for a minute, "and if he makes any further moves, I'm going for it. The man has me, John. Hook line and sinker. I'm his."  
"Shit, Greg. Is that good? I mean, is that what you want?"  
"At first, it was a joke. You know. Even the thought he would consider me fit to be his--whatever. But now. It's all I want. It's him. I'm falling for him, and I'm not going to stop."  
"So what do you need my advice for," I ask quietly, understanding he's emotional and so uptight that he keeps squirming in the seat.  
"Do you think I'm doing the right thing. After all, you're shagging his brother--,"  
I spit out the liquid I had placed in my mouth.  
"Greg we are not in any way shape or form doing it," as he stares uncomprehendingly.  
"I don't believe you. But, if that's true, then get on with it. These Holmes boys will study the hell out of the art and believe me; I can't wait. I expect to be treated like the proverbial princess. Even speaking about it," and he leans back, legs spread, so I see the bulge. He slides out of the booth, and I just then notice he's very drunk. Must have been drinking long before I got there.

* * *

The taxi ride to the flat gives me time to think. Time to realize I have the same bulge as Greg whenever the mention of my flatmate comes up. Merely understanding the possibility that Sherlock might, for whatever reason, might want to do it. With me.  
Taking the steps two at a time to find the door to the flat open and Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward. The coffee table pushed off to the side.  
"You're home," his voice that deep, dark, when he's contemplating me.  
"Obviously," hesitating between staying and going to my room.  
His arms stretch out, those long slender fingers beckoning, hypnotizing. His eyes shine softly, and he calls, drawing me in. "Come here. Come to me."


End file.
